I might’ve snorted whiskey from my nose. “I never told you I was a witch. In Chasseur Tower. You never knew.”

“That’s stupid. How could I not have known?”

“An excellent question—”

“Lou, my darling sister”—Beau flung an arm over his face in a truly dramatic fashion, still lounging on the bed—“you must tell me: Do Coco and I stand a chance?”

“Of course you do! She’s head over heels for you. Anyone can see that.”

“Does she see that?” He peered at me through bleary eyes. The bottle in his hand held an alarming amount of whiskey now—which was to say, not much at all. “She called me Ansel, you know. The other day. She didn’t mean it, of course, but it just sort of slipped”—he began to tip the bottle over the quilt, but I crossed the room and snatched it from him just in time—“out. She’d been laughing at a joke I’d made.” He looked up at me suddenly, his gaze sharper and clearer. Calmer. “She has a lovely laugh, doesn’t she? I love her laugh.”

Gently, I pressed him back against the pillow. “You love more than her laugh, Beau.”

His lashes fluttered. “We’re all going to die, aren’t we?”

“No.” I pulled the blanket to his chin, tucking it around him. “But I dare you to tell her anyway.”

“Tell her . . .” His voice drifted on an enormous yawn. “. . . what?”

“That you love her.”

He laughed again as his eyes finally closed, and his body succumbed to sleep.

And then there were two.

I turned to face Reid, startled to find him directly behind me. His eyes fixed on mine with a deep, unsettling intensity that hadn’t been there before. “Truth or dare.”

Butterflies erupted in my belly as he stepped closer still. Heat washed across every inch of my skin. “Truth.”

He shook his head slowly.

I swallowed hard. “Dare.”

“Kiss me.”

My mouth parted without volition as I looked up at him—as I saw that primal fascination in his eyes—but even through the fugue of alcohol, of keen, desperate want, I forced myself back a step. He followed intently. His hand lifted to cradle the nape of my neck. “Reid. You don’t—you’re drunk—”

The tips of his boots met my bare toes. “What is this between us?”

“A lot of alcohol—”

“I feel like I know you.”

“You did know me once.” I shrugged helplessly, struggling to breathe at his proximity. At his heat. This glint in his eyes—he hadn’t looked at me like this since before the beach. Not on the horse, not on the bridge or in the treasury, not even beneath this very bed. My gaze darted to the whiskey in my hand, and that heat in my belly felt more like nausea now. Alcohol is its own form of truth. “But now you don’t.”